


one must imagine sisyphus happy

by Amber



Category: 80 Days (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Groundhog Day, M/M, Master/Servant, POV First Person, Pastiche, Pining, Repression, Romance, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Fogg remembers every loop of the globe.—As the eightieth day passed us in Snowden, I truly began to believe that this was some kind of mythical punishment, an impossible task set me by the gods. I would push the boulder up the mountain, and each time I would need to rest before the summit, and each time it would roll down again. And yet I also became certain that if I could only win my wager, find some key to haste, this endless cycle would be broken and I would at last be reunited with my home.
Relationships: Phileas Fogg/Jean Passepartout
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	one must imagine sisyphus happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ried (riiiied)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riiiied/gifts).



> Title from Camus. Alternate title: Groundfogg Day.
> 
> Note: No 'Major Character Death' warning because there is no permanent death due to the way repeating time loops work, but there is death present/mentioned in this fic.
> 
> Thank you to my betas.

_I. IN WHICH TWO MEN TRAVEL OVER 30,000 MILES TOGETHER._

"Passepartout," I called to my valet, for that was somehow his name. "We are going around the world! Pack my evening jacket, there is not a moment to waste!"

* * *

_II. IN WHICH FOGG’S CONFUSION CAUSES CONSTERNATION FOR HIS VALET._

"Passepartout!" I called to my valet. He appeared at my side immediately, and with him a wave of dizziness.

"Monsieur?" he asked, concerned, as I took an unsteady step forward. A moment ago I had been entering my abode with a weary stride, having successfully circumnavigated the globe but not in the required amount of time to win my wager. My financial situation was in ruins, and even the cheerful valet who had remained by my side for the journey had but a moment ago followed me despondently, his arms full of luggage containing unsold tchotchkes and souvenirs. I do not know whether he suffered due to his master’s disappointment or his own thwarted ambition, but truly he had been ragged and grim.

But no more! Here he was now with his eager, attentive eyes, holding a jacket and lint-roller, in the midst of some task. I could have sworn sideways we sold that jacket in America for the funds to bribe a driver to leave a day in advance.

"Are you well, Monsieur?" he asked in concern. "Only, you said we must make haste."

"All haste is folly now," I said gloomily. "For we have failed."

"Failed? Why, we haven’t yet begun! Here, sit down, I shall get you some water — ah, the magnifying glass!" He spotted it on the mantle by the door, along with the letter-opener, and picked it up. "I wondered where that got to! I shall pack it."

He slipped it into the pocket of the navy coat he was holding, before going to fetch some water, while I contained my confusion and astonishment. Pack it? It was as if Passepartout was preparing for another journey, so soon after our arrival home!

Something niggled at me. I pride myself on being a capably clever man when a problem holds my interest long enough to warrant it, and perhaps it is that cleverness which had me stand and trail Passepartout, through the hall and further into my abode. He was in the bedroom, folding the coat into a well-ordered suitcase I had watched him carry for the last ninety days of our journey. And there on the bedside table was what I sought: the newspaper, folded neatly. I remembered perusing it idly that morning before I set off to the club, where I would make the wager and set our course. I had packed it then, of course, finished reading it on the train to Paris. I picked it up now.

"Oh, of course," agreed Passepartout as he curled an iron’s cord around itself and added it to the case. "You’ll want today’s paper, Monsieur. Would you prefer to carry it?" His slightly anxious tone told me he would prefer it be so — there was not much space left in the case.

Today’s paper. I looked at the date.

"Passepartout," I said quite calmly, "I think I have gone mad."

"Ah, well. I did not want to be the one to say it, Monsieur," he agreed with, I think, very little tact. I frowned and he exhaled a short, dramatic breath. How expressive the French can be without saying anything at all! "But you have made it clear time is of the essence, and so there, see? We are packed." He clicked the case jauntily closed. "Let us go."

He hurried me out the door, though I am certain it was the other way around last time, and into a cab he directed to the station with haste. From there it was almost a blur; we leapt aboard the 8:25 from Charing Cross, Passepartout producing tickets I do not know how, and we were off! Around the world again. Yes; there was no doubt about it. Perhaps my last trip was nothing but a fever dream, but even the station clocks and the papers on the train reflected the fact of the matter. I had somehow travelled back again, back, back, to London, to the day of the wager — to a _second chance_.

My expression must have given away my excitement, as Passepartout stopped puzzling over the guide to railways he’d brought and beamed at me. "Our first stop is Paris," he said, "My beloved home city. I hope you will like it."

"I hope we will not spend enough time in it for me to form an opinion," I responded crisply, and, so chastened, he returned to his maps, and I to my paper, rereading stories that seemed from a lifetime ago. How strange to think that we, too, would soon be in the headlines of this very paper — that I knew exactly what that headline would say, before it had even been written.

* * *

_III. IN WHICH FOGG BEGINS TO RECOGNIZE HIS CEASELESS PREDICAMENT._

The failure, again. The debt. The relief at finally being in one’s own home, the prospect of proper boiled mutton, good sherry and tea, warm socks and my own bed. The moment of dizzy deja vú. The eager eyes of my valet. The newspaper with its damning and impossible date.

"Again," I said to myself, quietly but with great agitation. "Yes, again. And this time we _shall_ succeed."

* * *

_IV. IN WHICH FOGG DOES NOT SUCCEED._

Again!

Again, the rattle of the cab as we raced to the train station. Again, the way the world went dark as the train submerged beneath the Channel waves. Again the young woman cheating at cards. Again the startlement of the bank teller who promises to wire for two thousand pounds. Again the jostling of a car engine and my valet’s wild glee.

Again, a moment where I remarked on his bright purple pashmina, doubtless gained from some new friend and dallience, and he offered it to me. This time I took it. I kept it in my jacket pocket, but I did find it comforting, when he was out wandering the city late, or doing some small tasks for coin, to wind it around my neck as I sat by the window. It smelled of spices and felt lovely rubbed idly between my fingers as I sat in thought.

Again, we were racing against the clock — but there were little diversions too, both my own and Passepartout’s, little changes to the last time we journeyed. Even the world sometimes seemed subtly different, but that was likely causality. An admonishment not to spend funds meant less time dallying in a marketplace, which allowed us to catch an earlier train, which in turn meant Passepartout ran into a man who sold us an expensive bottle of wine quite cheaply, which he later sold to the tune of two thousand pounds, which in turn afforded us a safer trip across the Atlantic—

But still, even with my own active endeavors to make small improvements upon our trip, to cut corners despite how it was not in my nature at all to do so, we were not fast enough. As the eightieth day passed us in Snowden, I truly began to believe that this was some kind of mythical punishment, an impossible task set me by the gods. I would push the boulder up the mountain, and each time I would need to rest before the summit, and each time it would roll down again. And yet I also became certain that if I could only win my wager, find some key to haste, this endless cycle would be broken and I would at last be reunited with my home.

* * *

_V. IN WHICH TIME PROVES ITSELF A CRUEL COMPANION._

It had been, at this point, by my own estimation, 341 days since I first ordered Passepartout to pack for our trip in haste. Nearly a year spent at this task — and each new attempt cost me another eighty days, though I supposed that as the world seemed to reset itself I was not truly losing so much time to this folly.

On some occasions it almost pleased me. I had always believed that I could become an expert in just about anything given the time to study it, and here now was nearly unlimited time at my fingers. I began with other card games. Whist was my particular fancy to date, a 'monomania' as Passepartout called it, but in America we had once or twice encountered a new game called "poker", and after familiarizing myself clearly with the rules in an unsightly saloon, and nearly getting myself and Passepartout shot in the process, I proceeded to refine my understanding of the theory. I also found it made the journey surprisingly more pleasant to be able to engage in practice with Passepartout, who had an unexpectedly canny mind and who, despite his French vivaciousness, was better at bluffing than I would have at first expected. Much of the final leg of that journey was spent playing with him, wagering for buttons and the assorted coins that seemed to always accumulate each journey.

Unfortunately, once we started over again, I realized Passepartout no longer knew the rules to the game, and endeavoring to teach him as early as Venice caused him something very like pain. For one, he was still of the mind that it was unseemly for me to treat him as a peer, a point of civility that had become less important to me as we were embroiled in adventure together over the past year. For another, he was quite forlorn to be stuck inside learning cards when he could be running about on the street like a tourist. He claimed it was important to explore to find routes that would take us forward, but I suspected he simply enjoyed the experience of all these new sights and cultures. Regardless, I let him go, and decided to find a solo pursuit.

I had always enjoyed Conan-Doyle’s detective protagonist, and it is for this reason I next applied myself to the study of forensics. There was of course no question of me attempting to join Scotland Yard upon my return, a move that would be unthinkable for a gentleman, but I could still read books about science and make a point of conversing with any in the field we might encounter on our journey.

This time my barrier was our luggage. The study required both books and equipment, and quite often anything I came by would be lost or simply sold again, Passepartout — perhaps rightly — deciding that my education could be postponed so that we could fit our winter coats in our bags, or so we could afford a hotel for the night while we waited for the bank to open.

It was also isolating. I found myself missing our poker games on those legs of the journey where we sat together in silence and I read. Occasionally I would try reading aloud some interesting fact but I believe Passepartout’s interest was, if it is not vain on my part to assume, in my saying anything at all than in the material itself. I am not sure I would have previously recognized that he was indulging me — too much time around the man, surely.

Perhaps, I thought, my best course would be not to travel at all, but to stay at home and study — losing my wager through inaction, but gaining valuable time for my interests. However this too swiftly proved a poor idea. My abode felt shuttered, constraining, and I fell to listlessness. Gossip abounded, and even being sure that it would be meaningless once the world reset itself again, it did sting my pride to hear myself called a coward and a quitter. The worst was Passepartout, who eventually took leave of my service entirely in confused disappointment, his interminable loyalty shaken by my sudden reclusive behaviour and (though it shames me to recount it) frequent ill temper in my own self imposed isolation.

No, the wager had to be attempted, and won. I could not lose sight of that goal regardless of how I occupied myself in its pursuit. Which is why when, in Bombay, I came across an article in my daily paper that described an arctic journey attempted by Artificers, I fermented a new plan entirely.

* * *

_IX. IN WHICH FOGG ATTEMPTS SOMETHING VERY NEARLY AKIN TO CHEATING, AND SUFFERS THE CONSEQUENCES._

It started with a trip to Cambridge — an abduction, as Passpartout wrongly thought at first.

I held no great love for my Trinity school-mates and masters, nor any particular golden reminiscence for my time at college, for my time as a young man was full of the kind of struggles even money cannot ease. Preferring my own company and things done in a very particular way had since become much more acceptable with age, and my icy manner was now seen as gentlemanly rather than sulky and standoffish as it was in my youth. However the accompaniment of my valet somehow had me seeing the place with fresh eyes, a trick he performed with great regularity, if truth be told, given how often I found myself in the same city on each subsequent journey. I relied on his excitement and enthusiasm even when it wasn’t catching, for it allowed me to feel I was balancing him out with my own more temperate observations, instead of feeling clinical and alone.

So it was with surprising fondness that I watched him drink far too much at the college dinner in the seat beside me, and I confess that when we made such excellent time across the sea I found myself thinking that we should start the journey like this more often — before remembering that, if all went as I planned, this would be our last journey. This would be our success. Nevertheless. I held it in my mind’s eye, Passpartout’s beaming, glowing face; his geniality in the midst of my peers, how well he seemed to fit there, how well I felt I fit by his side.  
If I had perhaps said anything cutting about his drinking to excess, or implied it in the raise of my eyebrow during the next day’s hangover, I was soon to get my just desserts. Once we reached Smeerenburg and met the Artificer I had set my sights on, a man by the name of Jokinen, I wrangled our passage on his trip by inviting him to a drink and pressing upon him for a promise while we were both inebriated — very inebriated. I was drunker than I usually prefer to get, as I kept pace with his Nordic tolerance, but reliable Passepartout did not make any remarks about my hypocrisy when I stumbled back to our hotel, simply prepared my sleeping wear and a glass of cold water, the latter of which I was very thankful for the next day. Whether it was the hydration, the purity of the alcohol we had consumed, or the altitude, I was still in a fighting fit state.

Passepartout seemed surprised that I had so charmed this inventor into a place on his expedition to the Pole, but perhaps he did not see me as a particularly charming man. Ah, well, it assisted that I had read the article on Jokinen’s interest in engineering and meteorology quite avidly, and was able to express a flattering interest in both subjects. He also had a weakness for the possibility of fame, and so my wager, the paper’s coverage, and Cambridge’s backing, had all served to convince him it would be of mutual benefit to have his craft be the one to take us on the majority of our trip around the world.

Our friendship did not particularly last beyond the camaraderie of drink, however, as almost immediately I found him quite an irritant. There was something about the way he and Passepartout interacted that chilled me colder than the snow we strode over in his long-legged machine. I did not like my valet scarpering off for picnics and hot air balloon trips and whatever other nonsense when the rigours of the trip left me in particular need of his attention. However I kept any feelings to myself. It would be deeply improper to even imply I saw what was between them, for it was the domain of my servant’s private life. And though a valet must by necessity know the most intimate details of the man he serves in order best to serve him, the reverse is unnecessary. However far from England we may have been, I was still obliged to the behaviours of good society. That my time spent with Passepartout had now exceeded a year in some very peculiar close quarters indeed served only as an excuse to my own mind — nobody else could know, particularly not the man himself.

Thus I held my tongue, apart from a few seemingly unrelated reprimands and a barrage of tasks to keep him busy. These did not stop him — the French find a way, it seems.

Needless to say, I was not expecting any of what came next.

I will attempt to summarize without melodramatics: we crashed, the ice walker sabotaged and our party of whalers and explorers stranded. I was badly injured in the catastrophe, and despite Passepartout’s best efforts there was very little sympathy from the crew — likely as we were outsiders they saw us as possible saboteurs, a view I would have strongly objected to had I any energy for objecting.

"A little warmth, my dear fellow," I remember saying to Passepartout, with a fondness born of delirium. But there was no warmth to be had.

In such a dire state I allowed certain boundaries to relax. Passepartout was no warmer than I, in truth, but it was still a comfort to have him pressed up against me as my extremities numbed and my life bled out. We whispered together there in that bedroll as though we were boys. I told him of my grandfather’s Polar expedition, and how I would play at being him as a boy. How all I had wanted in my life was to be an adventurer, an explorer.

"Monsieur," Passepartout murmured to me, "You cannot say you have not achieved that dream! Now hold on just a little longer that we might have you home and win the wager too."

"Ah, the wager," I said forlornly. "I thought with this I could trick fate and escape this endless purgatory of travel."

He must have taken such things for babbling madness, for though that was not the last time I spoke of my endless repetitions of the same eighty days, Passepartout never seemed to pay them any mind. He preserved my dignity and my spirits as best he could, often urging me to hold on just a little longer.

But a little longer became an interminable amount of time. There was nothing but the white and the cold. Even my body seemed to have left me, too stiff to move, too cold for pain, too weak for hunger, a corpse with my mind trapped in it.

"You must not go," Passepartout urged me, sounding near tears. "Beloved Fogg."

Beloved. It hurt my face to smile, but I managed something close enough. How long it had been since anyone had called me an endearment.

"Passepartout," I managed in a croak, understanding what a kindness he was giving me, attempting to make me feel less alone. He murmured other sweet, impossible things about his feelings until I faded into the blackness, his tears a scald on my cheeks.

* * *

_X. IN WHICH THE GREATEST MYSTERY AND WONDER OF THE WORLD IS MAN._

I do not think I shall enjoy the sight of snow for quite some time, or perhaps ever again.

I awoke strangely grateful for the endless cycle that it would allow me another chance at life, and it was with new eyes that I set off on my usual expedition, Passepartout beside me. This time south, across African deserts that were just as barren and dangerous and yet felt reassuring in their heat.

Passepartout took to undressing a great deal, a fact which I admit caused me some consternation. He of course saw all of me in the course of tending to my needs as his master, but it was rare for me to see so much of his lean acrobat’s body, his olive skin that browned like a nut in the Medittereanean. Or perhaps more accurately I had never had cause to notice before. Since that last confession over my dying form, I felt so much more aware of Passepartout: where he was, what he thought, how he moved and dressed. I found myself distracted from my newspaper to watch him in the window’s reflection as he ironed with a zen joy. I watched his clever hands packing and unpacking our suitcases at the market. Made excuses to stay near when he was exploring the city streets so I could watch him chat and laugh and philosophize with strangers, always far more outgoing than myself.

He was, of course, an excellent valet, a fact that had remained consistent throughout the course of our many journeys together. But I was now coming to see that he also was an excellent man, of a rare and extraordinary character. At times sharp and suave, continental and yet so often enthusiastic for the unknown in a way that had kept these endless circumnavigations fresh for me. Naive, perhaps — or optimistic, depending on one’s perspective. These traits sometimes got him into scrapes, such as when he trusted an agent of my rivals sent to interrupt our journey and ended up parting from me for days because of it.

I am not proud to admit how concerned I became for him then, how much time and money I spent attempting to work out what had happened and make contact again. Never once had it entered my mind that Passepartout had abandoned me willingly. For that was his chiefest and most admirable quality: his loyalty. Even when we disagreed or my demands were greater than should really be asked of any valet, he was steadfast. I watched him fell an American boxer for me, dive into deep water to save me from drowning, speak up in my defense against those with far more power than he, and repeatedly he stayed by my side even when all funds were gone and we slept in the streets.

Around and around we went, each time with a fresh set of mishaps to delay us however much I had become expert at dodging others — quite often now I took the same airship with the same captain and merely encouraged Passepartout to create a mutiny, which he pulled off expertly every time, shaving days off our trip across the Pacific.

Around and around, again and again, and sometimes at the end of each journey Passepartout would dare to press my hand in consternation and regret as we stood in our shame before London and I did not shake him off as I once might have.

* * *

_XVIII. IN WHICH OUR NARRATOR IS AFFLICTED WITH REMARKABLE SENTIMENTALITY._

In one of these circumnavigations I was so unfortunate as to have a relic of my past return to haunt me, and I will admit that it made me consider my relationship with Passepartout anew.

The young thief we met was the product of an affair I once had with a family maid. Though the woman was of lower stature than I, she was also older than me, and I would not consider that I took advantage. Yet it was certainly a gamble we took together, and one that resulted in the birth of a bastard child. Marrying her was out of the question — I would have been cut off from my funds and connections entirely, for while the Fogg name is a type of new money it was always my family aspiration that I settle down with bluer blood than my own. Perhaps if I found any of the society women worth my time!

My parents at that point were still alive, and they would have disapproved. In fact, I believe their disapproval was what motivated my interest in the first place, having always nurtured a mild distaste for any rules I saw as restrictive rather than comfortable. I made it clear that while I would provide some compensation for my part in matters I would have nothing further to do with the woman, and she left our family's service. The recommendation we gave her was flattering enough that she gained a position at the Reform Club, and occasionally we would see each other, nothing more than the appropriate level of deference and politeness between us. If I ever suffered due to such encounters, I did so later, privately.

If I were to be honest, my reasoning then was petty, an avoidance of responsibility. If hearts were broken, I broke them myself. I had also thought I did my best by my daughter but it became rapidly clear upon meeting her grown self that I could have done far better as a father. How retrospect makes such a fool of youth.

I explained some of this to Passepartout as best I could, and he made the right sympathetic noises, spoke of his own regrets. But what I did not divulge is how much the encounter brought me to thinking about love between the classes. My certainty on the matter had been wavering significantly since his confession on our ill-fated expedition — a confession he, of course, no longer remembered.

The matter of gender did not concern me. A man may have any sort of friendship with another man his equal — it shall never bear fruit, of course, but it seemed my family’s blood was already being carried on well enough. I would happily naturalize my daughter if I could have one blasted day in London instead of packing to leave as soon as I return. So if my proclivities have been turned away from women at this time in my life, then that is simply the fact of the matter and I must accept it in myself. Men are, in many ways, such superior creatures that it was understandable I should be drawn to one. 

However. It was ill-fitting for a friendship to spring up with my valet, let alone anything further. If we were to spend a life together, and I knew that hope was becoming foundational to me, it would always be as servant and master. The loosening of decorum between us as a result of travel could never be carried into the public domain. 

If only that hadn't weighed so heavily on me.

"I do not know how you can stand it," I admitted to Passepartout on the very last leg of our journey, amidst the smell of fresh citrus.

He looked up from his writing in that book he has kept so vigilantly, written and erased, written and erased for as long as we have been circling this globe. "Stand it?" he asked, clearly struggling to grasp this _non sequitur_. "Are you feeling unwell?" and he came over to tend to me, clearly thinking I was referring to the movement of the airship. "Here — truly I cannot write for very long without becoming a little nauseous myself. But brandy helps." He offered me a nip. "And looking out the window to the distance."

But it wasn’t what I meant at all. I took his wrist, throwing him off even further. "Longing, my good man," I told him gently, remembering the tender way he’d held me in my last moments, the admittance of his love. There was no trace of it now, that passion which had been strained to bursting, and I studied him as he used the back of his hand to take my temperature.

"It’s all right, Passepartout," I reassured him, since the man was channeling his confusion into fussing. "I am well. Merely thinking aloud."

"Is it the wager?" he asked, mouth pinched in concern. "You should not be too in debt. There are things we can sell—"

"Or we could try again," I said, knowing that was an inevitability. I would be on this journey until I won my wager.

Passepartout looked worried for different reasons now. "Again, Monsieur?" he asked. "Ah, I should not have sold that train timetable of Russia…"

He immediately began cataloguing what he would need to pack and arrange, and I left him to it. I knew how comforting organization could be. Far better than dwelling on the restrictions of society and which kinds of love could never flourish within them.

* * *

_XIX. IN WHICH FOGG, IN THE SPIRIT OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY, LEARNS THREE THINGS._

Firsty, that Passepartout’s loyalty extended even beyond the Earth. Had I not chosen to jettison him for his own safety and the success of our mission I expect he would have followed me to our deaths.

Secondly: that refusing to complete the journey around the world such that I reach Miami and leave the world entirely behind did not in any way provide whatever condition I required to free me from this endless repetition.

Thirdly, that there was no breathable air on the moon.

* * *

_XX. IN WHICH WE MUST TRY, TRY AGAIN._

It was time to put aside my terror, the distaste I now had for snow. Whether I died at the pole or on the moon or in a submarine off the coast of Africa or of plague in Manila or of thirst in the desert or crashed in one of those infernal rattling taxis Passepartout so enjoys, it was all death. The repetition of my loops make it meaningless until they were broken; the loops cannot be broken until I have won my wager; the quick loop around the Pole is the best chance to complete the required travel within the required time. QED, I must try the North Pole again. If at first you don’t succeed, as my nanny always used to say.

So when the carriage outside was clearly sent by Cambridge again, I hustled Passepartout into it without a moment’s second thought, and we set off on the first step of a northward journey once more.

It was jarring to retrace my own steps so explicitly — of course, in twenty times around the globe there were cities I had encountered twice or more, particularly Paris at the start, and there were events I played over. But never so deliberately or for such a long time did I walk in my own footsteps.

Small divergences: I procured us two buffalo skins, claiming their value would be worth the extra case. I made sure to have some warmer clothes for both of us. And I endeavored to be friendlier with the whalers, for I remembered it was they who had had liquor and broth, but had been unwilling to spare it for a dying stranger.

I was not certain I could avoid the crash. But I would be d—ned if I wouldn’t survive it.

The fear was immense, of course. I was not a man suddenly possessed of some great courage or unafraid of dying. And whilst my head could make all the logistical preparations, something in my body sensed I was walking deliberately towards my doom. I would be struck by seizures of my chest, whereupon my little room on the ice walker would feel impossibly small, and my ribs so tight they could crush my lungs. Despite that sudden claustrophobia, it was difficult to leave the room, even at Passepartout’s coaxing to emerge and take a turn on the deck with him: the white expanse of the snow drove me to distraction, and I even covered my window. I was in a foul temper most days, irritable in a way I would later feel quite sorry for, and my longsuffering valet spent as little time with me as he could beyond the needs of his duties, often disappearing with the Artificer Vitti Jokinen to play cards or see the workings of the machines or — the other things I am sure they did together on the great and impossible machine we rode.

"You and your friend," I told Passepartout, strained annoyance in my tone despite my best endeavors to keep my expression in the bland respose of a gentleman. "You will likely not see each other after this expedition."

I was trying to warn him off giving away too much of his heart, but Passepartout seemed oblivious, jovial as he was in the flush of love. He gave me a smile that hurt to know it was not with happiness meant for me.

"I’ll be all right, Monsieur," he reassured me. “It’s all part of the adventure, is it not?”

And perhaps for him that’s all it was. Grace only knows in the cities we’d been to all over the globe, and on the transports in between, Passepartout had always been more than willing to throw himself immediately into a new acquaintance and then just as immediately take his leave alongside me. There had been new friends on trains and in bars. He had broken hearts, no doubt. He would break the Artificer’s too.

"You irrepressible man," I told him seriously, but it was the kindest I’d been to him in some time, and he brought me hot towels and an ironed newspaper in response.

I confess I spent some time attempting to avert disaster all together, but my actions were mostly through Passepartout who seemed to think I was combatting the shadows of my fears rather than real danger. As the days passed I even took a look at the mechanisms myself, under the watchful gaze of the engineers, but I am no Artificer and have never been much for the study of such modern invention, even if my endless travel time and repeated exposure to the wonders of the Artificer's guild had built up in me some slight curiosity. 

So it was that the explosion came again, and the stranding.

This time I was not quite so badly hurt, however, and my preparations meant things were not quite so dire. Passepartout seemed guilty that he had spent so much time with his friend Vitti, and was quite attentive, even going so far as to wiggle his warm, lean little body into my bedding.

"What are you doing?" I asked blearily.

"You must be kept warm, Monsieur," he said firmly, though there was a hint of nervousness readable below the surface that told me he was just as aware of the impropriety. I thought woozily of the confession he had imparted the last time we were here, the way we had been pressed together then.

But I was not dying this time, stronger and warmer, and he made no effort to repeat that sentiment when he palpitated my bare arms with his hands, or tangled our legs together for our restless sleep. I would tuck my nose into his neck the way I did with my nanny as a boy, and ah, I swear beneath the smell of winter was the scent of a hot iron on clothes and a well made cup of tea, the most comforting smell in the world to me.

"Passepartout," I told him, "My one constant. I do not know what I would do without you."

"Hush, you are delirious," he told me, but I felt certain the pink in his cheeks was not the cold alone. "Here, have some soup."

Perhaps during that time I should have confessed all to _him_. I admit, I was on the verge of doing so. But I felt also so certain that if only I could survive, we would make our way home in such timeliness that the world would right itself again.

When rescue came for us, out there in the interminable snow, I wept tears that froze on my cheeks. Afterwards I felt as though I could do anything. I, Fogg, had foreseen death coming and stepped aside from it, overcome my own terrible fate.

Unfortunately the council of Qausuittuq did not share my exuberance. They seemed to feel that Miss Juho had done a great wrong in bringing us to that place even though it had saved lives — I could say for certain that it had saved mine.

Once we had recovered somewhat, the sentencing came: our entire party, including Passepartout and myself, were to be detained in the city indefinitely. The people were afraid for their culture — afraid to have the eyes of the outside world upon their great wonders. And while I, again, had no particular interest in Artificing, I had to admit that they had done great things within that city, both politically and mechanically.

Some small, turbulent part of my soul was struck with a difficult new perspective on the world; the possibility that good old English colonization had perhaps not been what was best for the indigenous people of the world, given their clear capabilities here in a place so far from us. I resolved to research this matter further upon my return to London. But first, such a return would have to be orchestrated.

Here, my wild confidence found a footing. I had not been stopped by death and I would not be stopped by politics. As there were no restrictions on our freedom within the city Passepartout and I quickly found an airship available to stow away on. The captain, once our presence was revealed, was reluctant to turn around again and quite accepting of the possibility that his city would soon be upon the world stage, a broad-mindedness perhaps imposed by travel and trade. Either way we were grateful to be carried onwards, and even more grateful to soon be disembarked in Canada, incredibly close to the journey's end and with less than forty days passed since we had set off!

There was no way this was not to be the winning journey, and I was in high spirits, so irrepressible even Passepartout noticed.

"How happy you are," he teased in that good-natured way of his, as he fixed my well-starched collar. A return to civilization had brought with it a return to appropriate dress, a regular toilet and shave, and to Passepartout's seeming joy, an abundance of ironing. The man seemed to love ironing.

I considered him from our close position. The relationship between the master of the house and his valet is one of respect, but Passepartout met my eyes like we were old friends. I was struck by the strangest desire to kiss the corner of his mouth - just where it flicked up in knowing amusement. I wondered what he would do if I leant in, if I took his mouth with my own. Would he moan and give way or pull back in shock? Would he let me bite his lower lip and tremble, or would his hands be strong and firm on my jaw, encouraging me to part my lips for his intrusion?

So preoccupied was I that I must have stared at his mouth for half a minute or more, and when I glanced up again Passepartout was slightly flushed, and his hands were stilled at my throat.

Very carefully, he ran a finger along the skin just above the stiff collar, and he must have been able to feel my fluttering pulse.

"Monsieur Fogg?" he asked.

"Passepartout," I said.

"We must leave," he said, making no move to step away. "If we are to make our flight."

Ah, the journey. The wager. How tired I was of it. I closed my eyes for a moment, screwed my courage to the sticking place. There was no time for this nonsense. If I wished my life to be restored, then I must return home at once. Then, there, I could consider indulgences like the colour of my valet's eyes.

"Very good, Passepartout," I said, and stepped away, picking up my scarf and gloves. It felt as though a thousand emotions boiled turbulently within me, but I allowed none of them to show on my face, and off we went.

My withdrawal was, I'm afraid, not taken as it was meant. Passepartout was more stand-offish than usual, sharing biscuits with the captain as they discussed Reykjavik and having very little to do with me. I had no idea how to go about indicating that I had intended only deferral, but we were so close to home in good time that even Passepartout could not suppress my excitement, and I decided it could all be sorted out when we were home.

Alas, what I did not expect was a familiar face when we stopped to refuel in Nanortalik. Passepartout had gone off to explore, and when he returned it was, to my astonishment, Vitti Jokinen in tow — the very Artificer who had first invited us on our North Pole journey, and Passeprtout's close companion.

Jealousy, I admit, is not an emotion I am used to feeling; the green acid curl of it in my belly was unfamiliar the first time we undertook that expedition and I saw Jokinen and Passepartout grow close, but now I knew it. However I am not a man who is a slave to my emotions, and when Passepartout expressed his intentions to stay here, on this spit of rock, to study the meteorological phenomena with Vitti, I did not grow angry. I'm not sure I had much emotion at all.

I gave my assent, of course. What was between us could never truly be anything meaningful, and would likely ruin both of us if spoken beyond the twilight before death comes. I had never seen Passepartout so happy as he was with this man.

"Very well," I said. "I am nearly home, after all. I'm sure I can do without a valet for the last few days of the journey."

"I have been told of a man named Otto Lidenbrock," Passepartout said, pressing my hand in urgency. "He has some experimental transport in Reykjavik — if the airship is too costly he may be willing to take you along with him."

I nodded my thanks at his diligence arranging our forward momentum. It occurred to me that this might be the last time I saw the man, given my return home would doubtless be the end of these endless loops, and I wasn't much for travel.

"Do look me up when you're next in London, Passepartout," I said seriously, feeling the way my facial muscles had hardened to stone.

"Of course," he responded.

"And I wish the two of you — every happiness." I fumbled with my wallet and brought out some of our remaining funds, counting out the notes. "Consider this a bonus for your good service; I shall of course ensure your usual pay goes through."

"Monsieur!" Passepartout said, seemingly speechless and a little flushed. I couldn't tell if he was happy or offended, but after a moment he shook my hand very firmly and enthusiastically. "Now you must go, the airship will depart again soon. Goodbye! Farewell!"

"Farwell, Passepartout," I said, and proceeded to the airship, where I stared melancholy out the window.

My spirits were somewhat revived in Reykjavik, where Passepartout's tip came good and I discovered a faster journey to Snowden than we had previously managed during our previous Icelandic detours. From there a Welsh driver was happy to bring me home for free, having heard of my wager and delighted to be the one bringing me in under the limit. 

For I was well under. What a bittersweet triumph! To have finally won my wager — and at so little expense that I would have a significant profit — but at the cost of Passepartout himself. Had that price been outlined to me on the first day of my first journey I would have paid it without a second thought, but now it seemed a steep cost. I felt his absence at my side dearly as I stood in the Reform Club before the flashes of photographers.

* * *

_XXI. IN WHICH FOGG IS MOST UNREASONABLE._

"You!" I shouted before we had even left my townhouse, pointing with a trembling finger at my valet.

"Me?" Passepartout responded with startled eyes, iron clutched in one hand.

"It’s you! You are the cause of this madness, you have somehow bedevilled me — I demand at once you free me!" It seemed obvious to me, obvious. What else could it be? I had made my return — it was Passepartout who had been left behind, and therefore it was Passepartout who was the key to this endless conundrum.

"Monsieur Fogg…" Passepartout said with great concern, pirouetting quite neatly aside when I leapt at him all teeth and fury. Monsieur Fogg! What on earth has gotten into you today?"

Again I leapt at him, and this time we tussled as I yelled of his crimes against me, becoming quite unhinged. He dropped the iron — fortunate as had I properly wrested it from him I may have attacked him with it. Certainly I attempted to strangle him, but I have no real proclivity for ungentlemanly violences however fit I endeavour to remain and I am glad to say Passepartout bested me easily, ducking and dodging and placating me all the while.

Eventually I gave up all at once and he stood patting my shoulder awkwardly. “Ah, there we are. Let me make you a cup of soothing tea, and call the doctor.” He clearly thought I’d lost my mind, beyond even the irrationality of the wager, though even after being attacked he was too polite to say so directly. I likely did not help matters when I clutched at his shirt, frustrated and helpless and yet, despite everything, wildly glad to have him returned to me.

The doctor prescribed a mild sedative, which I took gratefully, sinking into a dark void away from the frustrations that had overcome me. And so it was that my trip around the world ended once again without even leaving my house.

* * *

_XXII. IN WHICH ONE MAN LOVED THE PILGRIM SOUL IN YOU._

To hell with Vitti Jokinen!

I'm afraid that was my thought as the train dipped beneath the waters of the Channel once again. To hell with the snow of the Arctic, and to hell with the Artificer who had so captured Passepartout. I became resolved that this time around they would not meet — and would it be so wrong of me, to take from Passepartout what he did not yet know he could have?

Perhaps not so much when my intention was to give him something in replacement.

I had made a point of packing train timetables upon our departure, and purchased more in France, pressing them into Passepartout's hands in wordless request. Trains, I knew from experience, particularly the long journeys across Europe, Russia, or America, were often the calmest journeys. They involved long stretches where it was just the two of us tucked into our cabin, and only while dining or toileting did we meet anybody else. Not to mention that I found the mechanisms of a train soothing, its punctuality and the service of its staff, no stubborn captains or temperamental artificers, no turbulence or jostling, no living creatures with uncanny eyes. Just a smooth, quiet journey in a perfectly understandable machine. Yes, trains were a private respite.

I have not, I'm afraid, ever had the hang of expressing my emotions. In my age that had made me dignified, respectable, a social boon for a man of my standing. But unlike my peers it was not solely emotional control. Even as a child I was solemn and particular. As a teenager I was misliked enough to become arrogant, believing myself better than my peers for my differences, and prone to quiet anger and isolation. I turned to my interests, and those did not include improving my socialization. This meant that when it came to the profession of affection, I was unsure how to even begin going about it.

Still, I was determined. I would have this loop for myself, a quiet journey in which I would make clear to Passepartout his feelings were reciprocated and then could experience whatever may come about as a result. An indulgence beyond the sort money could buy, but it had been so many days now, over a thousand at least, and my rectitude had weakened somewhat.

I organized it the way I organized every other thing, with meticulous precision by way of Passepartout himself. I'm not sure he understood why I was so insistent upon the schedule of meals and tea, the isolation of our cabin, perhaps he thought I was merely attempting to bring some stability to the travel arrangements. But regardless, he obeyed, and we were alone with a boiled egg each in front of us when I put down my newspaper and looked at him.

"Passepartout," I said. Then, with a slight frown: "May I call you Jean?"

"I would really rather you didn't," he said, pained, and I must have seemed rebuffed somehow for he immediately leapt to reassure me: "Oh, it's only that I do not like my given name at all. Passepartout has always suited me well enough, even among friends. Only my dear _maman_ calls me Jean."

"I see," I said calmly. "Well then, Passepartout it is." I was quiet a moment longer, considering him. He fidgeted nervously with his little egg spoon, apparently not willing to eat under my watchful gaze, nor to speak.

"You may call me Phileas," I said. "When we are alone."

This stunned him so greatly that he dropped the spoon. "Monsieur?" he asked, baffled.

"Mm." I steepled my fingers together and said no more.

Eventually, he began to eat his egg. 

When our breakfast was over he went to iron, and I had never seen a man press clothes with such loving tenderness as Passepartout now worked on my vest and jacket. He hummed a little to himself, and I found myself smiling behind my newspaper.

Emboldened by my great success, I dared to press further that evening. Passepartout was doodling idly in the book he used to write his accounts and lists and other things, alternating between looking at his pen and staring out at the lights going past outside, the smear of stars visible when we were so far from a city.

"It is a full moon," I noted, and caught his eye in the clear reflection of our compartment. He turned fully to me.

"Yes. My aunt would say that was a time for madness."

Typically I would scoff, but I was engaging in an act of madness myself this evening, so I did not. "Passepartout," I said instead, to have his full attention. "There is something I need to tell you."

"Ah?" said he, perhaps a little wary, since usually I did not bother forewarning before saying dire or impossible things. I could see the gears ticking in his clever face, troubling him, so, to mix the metaphor, I ripped the bandage off rather than leave him to suffer.

"This is not my first trip around the world."

It all came out then, or a great deal of it. "Lunacy," he murmured as I began to describe how I would awake to find myself setting off again, over and over. But he listened politely otherwise, for I was his master, even if I was mad. And as I described our adventures his eyes got wider, and slowly I revealed other things, things I could only know from his lips, about his family and his upbringing, stories he'd told me of his past and habits I'd simply noticed in our time together. I told him of how he'd risked himself to rescue me, and of the time we'd been terribly sick, and of our time in a Vladastov gaol. I did not speak of the North Pole.

"I can prove it to you," I said. "We have been this way before several times. I will be able to anticipate certain events before they happen." I had considered sharing our predicament with Passepartout enough that I had readied myself.

But I underestimated him. "There is no need, Monsieur — oh, Phileas." A pause. "How strange to think that you know me better than I know you!"

"I would like for that to change," I said crisply, a prickle of heat crossing the back of my neck. I had not expected him to simply believe me; perhaps I had forgotten that Passepartout was, if not outright gullible, at least quite prone to trusting.

And perhaps he simply knew me well enough. Certainly my simple words had made him flush as ruddy as if they were a declaration of intention.

Which it was, in essence. "And I hope, in knowing me, you will come to feel the great affection that I feel for you."

A romantic sentiment, but it took so much strain for me to speak it that Passepartout's pleased startlement quickly grew sone amusement to it. "Phileas," he said, and the name was so new in his mouth. "I think you will find I already do." To me, his expression seemed to contain the most boundless affection, and I wondered if mine was the same.

"My dear Passepartout," I found myself saying, remarkably overcome. I allowed our hands to link, and the warmth of his fingers was a fire against my skin. I could hear my own heart, an anxious ratta-tat-tat.

"You are most extraordinary, Monsieur. Most extraordinary," he murmured, still in raptures. I did not correct him, though I thought privately that it was he who was extraordinary, to have captured me so.

But however my heart raced, certain mercantile trains of thought would not recede. My life and luxury rested as much on my reputation as it did the wealth that my forefathers had worked to accumulate. There were titled members of London who had found my presence in the venerable institutions of Cambridge and the Reform Club to be most off-putting, and already once I had proven their skepticism right. The memory of the young maid whose life I doubtless ruined still lingered with me, and made me still hesitant in my approach of Passepartout even though we had now both made it clear that we shared a romantic interest.

"You are thinking too much!" he abruptly exclaimed, as though to do so was an outrage. 

I found myself nodding assent, however. "I am," I said. "For... what now do I say when I wish to take supper and retire to bed?"

"You say, Passepartout, it is supper time," my valet insisted with a flourish. "Do you think I have not served you all these years while loving you? I can do it some more."

Loving. Suddenly I was quite at odds and ends, but I did take his point and was grateful for it. Still, it seemed certain to be a balancing act, to mix the personal in private with the professional in public. Passepartout wore many masks; I was not sure I had the theatricality required.

My uncertainty must have shown itself somehow, for Passepartout squeezed my hands. "It will all work out, Monsieur Fogg," he said earnestly, carefully professional. "I will see to it." As he saw to everything. Marvelous man.

"Hm," I murmured, considering him, before finally acquiescing. "I suppose it's worth a try," I said. After all, once we were home Passepartout would forget all of this, and any embarrassments I made of myself before he or others would be forgotten. "Well then, I should think it's time for something to eat."

The rest of the evening progressed normally, and after a brief station stop the next morning, so did our journey. My concerns were quite simply allayed: nothing happened. Passepartout pressed my collars and served my tea with a reverent joy, and when our hands brushed it was like a small explosion within my heart. We saw the other passengers and the conductor only briefly, once or twice. And amidst the inanity of this simple, quiet journey, I allowed myself to stand by him in the compartment and cup a hand to his face.

"You are so beautiful," I breathed. "To think that I have only mustered the courage to tell you so now." My voice cracked slightly with the wave of feeling that had struck me. "I am a fool."

Passepartout had not been expecting this, and for a moment he said nothing, but then: "I— I never thought I could have anything like this,” he whispered, looking at me with wide and gleaming eyes.

It was then that I leant in and pressed my mouth to his.

There was a surety to kissing Passepartout that I was not expecting. Everything slowed, the movement and noise of the train fading from my ears. I became aware of the way our bodies stood, the exact measure of the space between us, with some sixth sense for my eyes had fluttered closed. Everything was warm and calm. I felt like perhaps I now truly understood why people ascribed so much metaphor to this moment, why there were poems and plays written about love. I know, as a logician and a scholar, that our kiss did not move any earth, did not make any impact on the world at all outside the way it thrummed through our veins. But when he reached up with those strong and wiry hands to grab my shirt and haul me closer, it was everything. No scientist could measure the earthquake in me.

It was some time later that we parted, and all his good work ironing my shirt crisp had been undone by his hands, but I didn't mind. We smiled as we caught our breath, dizzy with the possibilities between us.

The time we spent together in that cabin belongs to us alone, but the days passed. I nearly forgot about the wager, so content was I, but Passepartout kept his promise not to change and still hurried us on.

Once there was no more close privacy things became a tad more fraught — glances and brushes and whispers that I must pray, for my own dignity, were subtle. We took tea together, and he would rub my feet before bed, hands working hard into the arch of my foot to my helpless sighs. Sometimes I would read a newspaper article aloud to him. We allowed outselves to have innocanet cameraderie, and did not share a bed. Perhaps that should have frustrated me, the constraint of the eyes of polite society, but instead every moment was syruped in happiness, and I found it enjoyable to have something approaching similar to my old routine with the added comfort of our new relationship.

"Sometimes I wonder," Passepartout teased me, "If all your alignment with the mores and traditions of society is just that you don't like change."

"What ever do you mean, dear."

"Just that — you don't really feel any shame about being with me, but you don't want your routines disrupted for it, and that includes the allowances your social standing gives you."

Incredible cheek, to talk to an employer so. But I found myself laughing, a deep boom I hadn't made in years. "Yes," I admitted as I calmed, still tickled by this unwavering and wholly accurate assessment. "I suspect you have me to rights. Another cup, please, dear."

Both of us had been mostly ignoring our surrounds. I was quite flattered to see Passepartout's exuberabce for sights unseen and his love of the airships and foils and machines we catch had been overshadowed by what was now between us. If there was time available for us to spend alone together, we took it, and I had done this trip so many times that the whirlwind of paying for a hotel room and presenting tickets and checking maps was of as much note by now as getting dressed and chewing my food.

But this could not go on forever, and as our train travelled rapidly through the new wide plains of the Americas, I realized with startling melancholy that it would be over in a matter of days, one way or the other. Whether we procrastinated a little or sailed for London, either way soon we would be home and I would be setting out with a Passepartout none the wiser.

When I had made my decision to confide in him, this had calmed my nerves. To roll the dice and open my heart in the hopes of winning his I had relied heavily on the fact that if something went poorly it could be so simply undone in a matter of weeks.

But now? Now it weighed on me.

We were lying down when I said as much, his hands idle in my thinning hair. He loved nothing more than to touch me even though he already did that more than any man. "I don't know how I'll manage once you forget this."

"Then I won't forget," he replied cheerfully.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," said Passepartout. "Phileas, have you ever won the wager?"

"But once," I said, trying not to sound bitter. "I returned alone after forty-tive days."

"Forty-five!" he exclaimed. "Now that's a story I will expect you to tell me at some point. But it hardly disproves my theory. No, let us win it properly, this time, together. Then we shall see."

His unspoken thesis was that this would break my curse. For my part, I could not dare to hope. Such optimism simply wasn't in me; it raised the stakes impossibly high. I placed my hand on his hip, over the soft material of his undershirt, a small dip I had become greatly enamored of. And I leant in to put an end to further speculation.

* * *

_IN WHICH ONE JOURNEY ENDS, AND A DIFFERENT SORT BEGINS._

It surprised me, when I realized I'd won. We'd won. 

Even in the last mile of the car from Snowden, the driver yammering happily at me, with a full seventy-two hours to go, I felt sure some calamity would happen. But no, having taking well timed journeys on fast transport without the interruption of adventure, we had successfully done what I could not the other twenty times. A timely circumnavigation. A wager won.

Yet even as I walked up the steps of the Reform Club as if in a dream I felt a heavy melancholy. Passepartout and I were separated; he sank into a chair and watched me be toasted. If he had his own apprehensions, I could not read them.

I was used to this part by now, though typically I was gracefully navigating failure rather than success. The cameras, the interviewers, the crowd. There was applause. I calculated my profits. A bartender muttered his epithets, a cook her congratulations. Passepartout's hand warm in mine.

I took it again when we got home, a near desperate snatch. 

"Come now, Phileas, I can't really be expected to put the kettle on one-handed," he objected gently.

"No," I refused him, taking the other as well now that the door was between us and the rest of the world. I felt loose at the seams, certain I was standing on the precipice of the world's end, certain I could not, would not bear it.

We waited together.

I opened my eyes. Passepartout looked back, expression softer than he would have dared if I'd been looking. He covered his blush with a cough: "Well?"

I blinked. We were still here.

"We won," I said blankly.

"That realization's coming a bit belatedly, I think."

"We _won_ ," I said again, my facade cracking. I gathered him close with a boyish whoop, the sort I typically only reserve for sporting events. "Passepartout!" 

What I meant, of course, was that time was still progressing. We had won, and we had still won. We would still have won in ten minutes, perhaps an hour, maybe even a day.

"Monsieur," Passepartout said. "You are shaking."

I was, mostly in excitement. Overwhelmed not at my new money, or even my new relationship with my valet, or any other outcome. In that moment I was simply a man who had pushed a boulder to the top of the mountain and could now sit down.

"I did tell you," Passepartout was saying, such righteous pleasure in the vindication of his optimism. "Didn't I tell you, Phileas?"

"Yes, yes." I sat down, though in the nearest armchair, which received me with a comforting plushness far beyond the seat of any transport or the sofa in any hotel.

"Tea!" I cried, and having had his hands free Passepartout set to making some. "A pipe! A bath! Boiled mutton! _My own bed_." He had been an exemplary valet, of course, the veritable god of domestic servants, but there is nothing quite so like the creature comforts one's home provides. The stability and reassurance. I realized my eyes were blurry with unshed tears and quickly dashed them away.

We'd won. And after thousands of days of travel I had not been returned to the start of my adventure once again. Nothing would be undone to be done again better, now. I would never get a clean slate with Passepartous.

Fortunately, I did not want one.

"Your tea, Monsieur," he said, the tone of it somehow softly ironic, handing a mug to me and taking a seat with his own.

"Thank you, my dear," I said. Sipped it. Considering money and London gossip, considering my daughter, a blood heir, and how I could bring her home. Considering, as so often happened now, my dear Passepartout. Had the gods ever considered what havoc it might wreak, a boulder pushed deliberately from the very top of an impossible peak? Because I have been known to indulge in petty amusement, I waited until he was taking a drink before I remarked:

"I believe our newfound wealth might buy you a title." I said with a straight face. "But I am not certain that it would be legal, were we to try and marry."

The resulting spray of tea was immensely satisfying. The last few years of my life had been busy to say the least, and I was glad to rest, and yet I felt strangely certain that I would not have to contend with _boredom_ for quite some time. Indeed, perhaps never again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, all feedback will be printed out and consumed to sustain my human form.


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